Losing Your Memory
by AoiSouls
Summary: John tried to remember, his voice, his face, his smell but no matter how hard he tried the memory just kept fading, slipping through the crack with time. Three long years. He had waited and mourned. John closed his eyes, sleep would not come and when it finally did the dreams were unbearable. Johnlock.


Warnings: Character Death, Suicide, and all around depressing reading material. Rated M to be safe. enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money off this or any other fic if I did I wouldn't be so poor.

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Little by little he fades.

John tries to hold on to Sherlock's memory but he is losing it. He has forgotten the sound of his voice, the inflections the tone and pitch. It was the first thing to go. As soon as John realized what was happening he broke down at work.

Sarah had to let him off early and take his patients. John tried over and over to pull some record of his voice into his mind but it was gone. Not even a whisper left. John didn't go back to work after that. Three weeks past and Mycroft stops by. John can look at him not because he resembles Sherlock because he doesn't but because John blames him.

Next to go was the sound of Sherlock's violin. At first john would hear it constantly around the flat. Now there was nothing but a heavy suffocating silence. Not a whisper of music left. He tried listening to violin solos on his computer. He ended up slamming it shut and throwing it into the couch, it wasn't Sherlock.

Next to go was Sherlock's hair. John could not for the life of him remember the exact color or how it sat on his head. John did remember though often having the urge to touch it. It always looked so soft to him.

By year two, his face was gone. John cried for hours and was inconsolable for days. He laid in Sherlock's bed desperately try to pick up a faint trace of his scent. When he found it in the pillows, he left the bedroom and went back to work.

Sarah had forgiven him his brake down. Offering to let his stay at hers if it would help to be away from the flat. John can't figure out why he doesn't have any pictures of Sherlock. He wishes he had taken some. Now when he thought of Sherlock it was just a faceless man it a coat.

John had Sarah check him for brain injuries. The results were perfect. He was a healthy man for his age. He so frantically wished that it had been a tumor or injury. Then his forgetting Sherlock could be forgiven.

John slept in Sherlock's bed that night taking in his scent barley lingering on the sheets and pillows. After a while they only smelt like dust and john cried for the loss of that as well. John sealed off Sherlock's room and never when into it again.

Year three came with a staggering epiphany. Sherlock was gone. John's hope died with what was left of Sherlock's beloved coat and scarf. He could not picture what shade of blue it was, or if it had tassels at the end. Was the coat gray or a light black? Maybe it was a dark black? Did the coaler reach up to Sherlock's ears?

So john wakes up from a nightmare once again. He goes into work and smiles at Sarah and takes all of his patients like he used to. He stops by St. Brats and has a chat with Molly, gets a coffee with Mike and talk pleasantly each time avoiding the topic of Sherlock. John stops at New Scotland Yard and says hello to Greg, they go get a pint together and on his way out the door he tells Sally to fuck off and Anderson where he can shove it.

When John gets home Mycroft is in his chair, John sits on the couch Sherlock's seat is empty, terribly empty, and he will not sit in it. The talk, a bit awkward conversation at best and half a pot of tea. Mycroft wants to take Sherlock's things now. He believes John is ready to let go of his live in shrine.

John is, he tell Mycroft to go ahead. Mycroft smiles, its fake he probably knows. How much John is unsure he smiles at him anyway and wishes him well when he leaves walking him to the door?

John gets dressed in his favorite tan jumper. It was Sherlock's favorite too, the only one he didn't try to use for an experiment. He doesn't bother to close his computer it'd open to the word file he was working on the past three years. John goes for a walk kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek before he goes.

He goes to the pool the one Moriarty had taken him to. It's nearing two in the morning by the time he gets there it was fairly far away. His legs hurt from the long walk and he is tired. He has been so tired for so long. He watches the water for a bit it looks the same as it did that day. The day he realized that he loved Sherlock like he would never love anyone else again.

John checked the training weights he had on his legs. He used to use them when he was in the military. Slowly john walked into the pool, walking down the stair at the shallow end until he got to the drop. John's hands didn't shake, he was afraid like had been all those times before. John likes to think he isn't being a coward, he knows he is. He steps off and into the arms of his best friend.

The water engulfs him as he sinks to the bottom. Instinct is a stubborn thing and John can't see to stop holding his breath. The edges of his vision is getting a little darker and suddenly in the peaceful empty blue, he hears it Sherlock's violin as clear as if he was playing it for him. John closes his eyes the chlorine stinging them. Until a voice echoes in the water with him. His Sherlock calling his name and playing his violin, just for him. When john opens his eyes finally that face that had faded away is floating there with him in such vivid clarity that it's startling and john gasps water filling his lungs. John closes his eyes again and feels Sherlock wrap him in an embrace he feels warm all over. Sherlock arms are comforting and feels the kisses he never got to give.

John knows he is dying that is oxygen starved brain is just conjuring these hallucinations and can't bring himself to care. Not here in Sherlock's embrace and kisses on his lips. John closes his eyes they don't open again.

_At the Funeral_.

Everyone John knew, except Mycroft, stood around his grave watching as the casket was lowered in next to Sherlock's. The head stone now moved to the middle of the two newly inscribed. It was a short affair with lots of crying and angered yelling. The yelling mostly from Harry, a good portion of it too slurred to be understandable. One by one they left.

Mycroft being the last to stop by. He stood in front of the graves looking as impeccable as ever. Anthea by the car in the far off parking area still texting away on her blackberry.

"It seems John that you never lose your talent to surprise. My brother… could not have found a better person, to stay by his. I am pleased to say that in this instance…perhaps you remembered him better then all of us." With that said Mycroft walked back to his awaiting car. Leaving the tombstone he had inscribed by his finest stonecutter to say….

Sherlock Holmes

John H. Watson

Simple, elegant,and fitting for the end.

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This was just one of those thing I had to write. It really came out all on it's own. It says complete but I may do a little sequel about what John left in the word file on his computer. Hope you all enjoy review and tell me what you think.


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